What happens when the closets are empty -- when all the shirts and skirts and suits and shoes and furniture of the past are, as if by magic, sent out ... when, standing on the downstairs landing, a single tentative hoot echoes somewhere in an equally empty upstairs hall? It is as if 'nothing' had descended and yet it is not exactly nothing ... so what is it? Where there is nothing to fill the emptiness, what is it that fills the emptiness?
|Gabriel Garcia Marquez|
Isn't this a realm that anyone might acknowledge in soft, but insistent, whispers? What if I told a joke but no one laughed? What if I offered a thought, but there were no ears to hear it? What if I loved and no one knew? What if my entire persona simply slipped off the grid like water droplets off a new-washed glass? What if the closets were empty?
It is so frightening and yet what if I were afraid and there were nothing to be afraid of?
The closets empty out all by themselves. I have worked hard to fill them in the past and know the feeling of wanting to keep them well-stocked and social. But to what end, such energy? This question is not an invitation to a brooding glumness. I am just curious: To what end?